


ain't no one gonna listen if you haven't made a sound

by misura



Category: To the Ends of the Earth - All Media Types
Genre: Canon - TV, M/M, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-09 13:02:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8891830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: "I would not presume to have even the faintest notion of your needs, sir," Summers says. His tone is very nearly neutral. Deverel wonders what Summers might sound like freed from such restraints as he has placed upon himself. "I beg you to show me the same respect."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [havisham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/gifts).



> I was lured into this fandom by written promises of JJ Field's beautiful, cruel face and then I stayed because yes, yes it is, but also because of Charles Summers, who is like this really nice guy and also not bad looking? and I feel like I should maybe feel bad about shipping them, because I can't see how this would end well for Charles, but ... gah.
> 
> happy Yuletide!
> 
> (title lovingly 'borrowed' from The Scissor Sisters' Filthy/Gorgeous, which isn't period-appropriate at all, but it came on when I finished the first draft for this and it sort of stuck?)

"Sir," Summers says, and he is, without a doubt, the first and last man to ever thus address a man in Deverel's position - Deverel thinks that might have found it endearing, had it not annoyed him as much. "Sir. You are in drink."

"What I am is causing significant wear to my trousers," Deverel says, slowly and precisely. "You might demonstrate your upbringing by showing some small appreciation, but, begging your pardon, that would be assuming you had a gentleman's education." He smiles up at Summers.

To give the man credit, Summers doesn't flinch. Then again, he's probably inured to most comments of this nature by now. To elicit a response, Deverel imagines he might need to actually make an effort.

Not an unwelcome prospect, given the chances of any Frenchies showing up to enliven the voyage.

"Is it your habit to give offense to those you seek to impose upon? I cannot say that I think much of your attempts to further our acquaintance thus far." Summers offers a frown, but it is a feeble thing.

"Kill a few Frenchies in a fair fight, and I shall gladly salute you and embrace you like a brother," Deverel says. "A pity, do you not think, that no captain likely to see action would willingly take on an officer with your background? They are spoilt for choice, and you are very near the bottom of the barrel."

"Sir. You are pushing at the boundaries of what I will tolerate, even from a man who is clearly not aware of what he is saying." Summers stares down at him and for one moment, Deverel imagines the man is considering to strike him - it would be an easy, if low thing to do. Deverel would not have thought on it; he would have acted the moment the idea occurred, and to the devil with the consequences.

Alas, that one of Summers' birth cannot afford such easy indulgences.

"Oh, I am entirely aware. It is nothing but the truth, is it not?" Deverel is not used to conversing in these circumstances; his knees are objecting to the lack of distraction.

Summers' smile is fleeting and uncalled for. "If I'm near the bottom of the barrel, where does that put you?"

"Why, directly under you, of course," Deverel says. "Is that not why you are First Lieutenant? You should feel quite pleased, to have your qualities as an officer rated more highly than my blood and position as a gentleman. Never let it be said Captain Anderson has an ounce of decency, or any notion of what is and is not appropriate."

"And this, to your drink-soaked mind, translates to your accosting me in this way?" Summers asks. "Come, sir. Let me help you to your cabin, and let that be the end of it."

"My dear Summers, you are more than pushing at the boundaries of what I find tolerable. Are you slow-witted as well as low-born? Need I resort to crudeness?"

Summers holds himself still as a man expecting violence. Deverel wants to either laugh or strike him, or possibly both simultaneously. Deverel knows well his own vices, and he does not count assault among them.

Of course, here, too, Deverel has a clear advantage. Few people will take the word of a gentleman over that of someone not so fortunate in his lineage.

"I would not presume to have even the faintest notion of your needs, sir," Summers says. His tone is very nearly neutral. Deverel wonders what Summers might sound like freed from such restraints as he has placed upon himself. "I beg you to show me the same respect."

"Why, all you need to do is walk away, isn't it?" Deverel says. "Devil take it, man - I'm hardly holding you at gunpoint, am I? You'd think nobody has offered to go down on his knees for you before."

This, at last, gets some small response. A man in Summers' position can as ill afford friends as enemies. Deverel has his name, for all that the Deverel fortune is in decline. A war hero would suit the family quite well, be he ever so afflicted with vices.

"I heard no offer, sir," Summers says.

Deverel wonders if Summers is the kind that likes to talk, to make a show of affection where no such tender feelings are involved. The sea takes some men that way, far from the gentler sex. They imagine themselves in love, like suitors panting for a veiled look, a fleeting touch, a whispered word of kindness.

"Have you not eyes?" he asks. "By God. Any other man would have been done by now, or gone for seconds, possibly." Men with such stamina are blessedly rare, and Deverel generally prefers to receive rather than to give. Still, he accepts that there must be an even exchange.

Summers displays a sliver of amusement. Deverel considers it a victory, albeit one not worth the discomfort he has put himself through thus far. For that, he will need a bigger victory still.

"So why not throw yourself at one of them? Why me?"

Deverel shrugs. "Why not you? You're interested. I'm in drink. Clearly a match made in heaven."

"Hell is, I believe, the place you intended to refer to," Summer says dryly.

"Only if you insist on continuing to act in this tiresome manner." Deverel grins. "What, you think I haven't had enough practice to be more than adequate at it? You think you'd be my first?"

"You'd be mine," Summers says, as casual as if the admission costs him nothing, as if it is the most normal thing in the world for a man to confess to.

In some circles, Deverel supposes it must be. A gathering of monks, possibly. "A virgin? At your age? Have you no shame?"

"A man in my position can as ill afford such an emotion as can a man in yours. Possibly even less so. And I never said I was a virgin. Merely unfamiliar with the experience of being on the receiving end of this particular act."

Deverel wonders who has seen Summers get down on his knees for them. It cannot be anyone aboard, or he'd have heard of it. A man who is known to drink well hears a great many things, some of them even true. The worst he has heard of Summers is that he is kind, fair-minded and willing to work.

In certain quarters, that assessment would be a condemnation. Aboard one of His Majesty's ships of the line, they are the mark of a good officer who possibly deserves his position and likely will not live to tell of his first bit of action.

Should that happen, Summers' loss will be Deverel's gain, of course.

"I assume that I will be called on to return the favor - if such is the word," Summers adds. "That this is a, what is the term? A quid pro quo?"

"If you wish," Deverel says. "The correct term, for your information, is fellatio."

"Buggery, in plain English," says Summers, and Deverel realizes that at some point, Summers has ceased to address him as 'sir'. "I have no Latin, as you well know. Let us not mince words."

"You're the one insisting on this endless talking." Deverel is tempted, for a few seconds, to rise and see if that might prompt Summers to action. "But yes, to answer your question. You may stand me a drink, and I will consider your invitation."

"What, no coded messages? No secret signs? What if I only want to stand you a drink?"

"You haven't, so far," Deverel says.

"A drowning man rarely has need for a cup of water." There is some aspiration to wit in Summers, Deverel realizes, with something that is a distant cousin to delight. He enjoys a fight after all, and a battle of wits is far too easily won when one's opponent is unarmed.

It is also a bloodless affair, compared to an honest fight, but these are lean times, and Deverel will take what he can get until something better presents itself.

"You really don't think much of me at all, do you?" Deverel asks. "Were you a gentleman, I would call you out."

"Were you to do so, I would remind you that we are both bound in service to His Majesty. Are we done here?" Summers sounds casual, almost bored.

In His Majesty's service or not, Deverel gives some serious thought to hitting the man. "Are we?"

Summers breathes out slowly. It's a near miracle no one has come upon them yet, although in this part of the ship, discovery is hardly a thing to be feared. Men will do as they do, and as long as it doesn't interfere with their duty, it's a rare captain who does not turn his head.

"No," Summers says at last. "I suppose not."


End file.
